Dead Girl Walking
by QiZ
Summary: How would you go about describing that night? I suppose the simplest way would be to just call it a need, pure and simple, but in that statement there is also another kernel of truth that must be addressed before you can get to the bottom of the matter: Purity does not exactly equal goodness.


How would you go about describing that night?

I suppose the simplest way would be to just call it a need, pure and simple, but in that statement there is also another kernel of truth that must be addressed before you can get to the bottom of the matter:

Purity does not exactly equal goodness.

There is something fundamentally pure in human nature's more base functions: violence, hunger, lust.

But the difference between us and the animals is something more than just our thumbs, it is the ability to pick and choose our battles.

We choose to forgo violence in place of diplomacy for the simple fact that we may not be able to win every battle through simple force.

And that's ok.

We might feel hungry, but we may not choose to indulge in what we really want, because we know that too much of a good thing might be bad.

And that's understandable.

We may have some primeval urge to procreate and leave our spawn to ensure the continuation of our bloodline, and we do not let that rule our lives.

Because that would be unrealistic.

There, however, comes a time in everybody's life when they may want to give into these desires, not out of weakness, but rather from an understanding that fulfilling hungers like this is just human nature, and can be cathartic and freeing.

Allowing oneself to revert to a primal state, one where instinct takes the reins is something that is becoming less and less common, less and less acceptable.

In today's modern society, there is a mask of humanity that one should keep one, lest they lose face and become ostracized.

It's this process of bottling up emotions and never letting them go that causes stress, depression, feelings of ennui and restlessness.

Which must be why she felt so passionate that night, only thirty hours before her social death.

It was freeing.

Condemnation liberated her, for if there was nothing in her future, no good, no hope, then there was also no need to fear repercussion.

Besides, it wasn't like he would have said no, or that she would have taken it as answer.

That open window was to her a sign, symbolizing the an action that was always available to her, but never really an option before now, either because of outside circumstances, or internalized feelings.

That night, however, neither of them were important enough to stop her from indulgence, she had a hunger in her that she would never be able to fulfil quite like how she could at that moment.

It was something that she had heard before, in the pop songs incessantly playing on the radio, plying their trade of sex and love and inescapable desire, but had never truly experienced.

His everything was what she wanted, she just wanted to pull him closer to her and never let go, bury her head in his chest while he held her tight against his wiry frame and wrapped her legs around him. She wanted to grind against him with a desperate need that she had read before in trashy dime store novels she knew she was too good for, but enjoyed anyways. It was like violence in sex form, his bed squeaking under the two of them in carnal embrace. Wherever his hands tread, she felt goosebumps spring up almost instantly. His breath was a bouquet of cigarette butts and mouthwash, and she couldn't get enough of it. She ran her fingers through his hair and grabbed handfuls of the black mane, pleading wordlessly for him to give it to him even harder. When he ventured downwards, under the elastic of her waistband she gasped because she didn't know that anything could be so goddamned cold, and yet so horribly warm at the same time. He teased her folds between his thumb and forefingers, squeezing them together, and suddenly spreading them apart. She gasped, of course, because it felt to heavenly compared to when she did it herself. Her jacket was forgotten on the ground below them, along with her skirt. He didn't have much to get rid of, but what little clothes he had on were soon discarded just as quickly, just another obstruction between their bodies against each other. For the longest time, they hid under the covers, not out of any sense of shame, but rather out of greed. They were so covetous that they didn't even want to share each other with the air around them. There, in their slapdash safe house their breaths were so hot and steamy. She couldn't bring herself to look into his eyes, biting against his shoulder as they just grinded their lower bodies against each other. Every time a moan escaped his mouth, it was usually followed by or preceded by a curse. 'Oh fuck baby' 'Oh god' 'Oh'. In contrast, she just squirmed out noises that he couldn't have imagined in his wildest dreams. Every time she did make those noises, he went back to the action that made them happen, over and over again until he found something else that made her just as restless.

Soon enough, too soon, she was at her peak, and she didn't want it to end, they hadn't even gotten to the best part, penetration. She wanted this rollercoaster ride to go on forever, and ever and she didn't want to get off. J.D. had other plans though. With a flick of his wrist, she tumbled over the edge, he body racked in waves of pleasure that had her convulse under his body, staining the sheets in something they both knew wasn't sweat. Shocks of electricity flew up from her lower body, J.D. wasn't done. He continued to rub, gentler now, as if shushing her from her little pleasure attack. It almost hurt in the best way possible, before giving way to something that she had forgotten about, something that made her wonder if J.D. was in any way psychic, because she sure as hell didn't know what was going on in his head.

Multiple orgasms, what was god smoking when he had that stroke of genius?

Skipping over the more gory details, the rest of their night was pure bliss wrapped in a bedsheet. They laid there, lost in each other's bodies, savoring their partner's breaths in and out. J.D. was smoking a cigarette and he passed it to her every other puff. Maybe it was all in his head, but it seemed liked the cig lasted longer when he did this, watching her beautiful lips drag in, and her eyelids flutter as she blew the smoke up in his face, just for fun.

They laid there and it was nice. The both of them feeling a sort of completeness that they'd never dare hope for. Was it possible that she had forgotten about what was waiting for her come tomorrow? The humiliation? The groveling? No, probably not. It was more possible that she just didn't care at that moment in time, that she had had the thought thoroughly and completely fucked out of her. The worst was over, and that was the waiting, because she was waiting with HIM. And even though she knew it wouldn't last forever, she was ok with that. Because this was nice. But what, one has to wonder, was going through HIS head at this time? This was something that he'd never felt before, a pure hunger being sated like that. It must have felt heavenly. It must have been unlike anything he'd ever imagined before. It might have scared him. It might have woken something deep within him. A fear. That'd he'd be able to scratch an itch like this elsewhere. The smoke cleared his thoughts, and his lover's head on his chest calmed him down, though his heart paced. Yeah… it was all becoming clearer now. Something like this was GOOD. Cathartic. All those other problems in his life? They could just be blown away, as long as she was there beside him, he'd be ok.

How would you go about describing that night?

I suppose the simplest way would be to call it a need, pure and simple, but in that description, there is something else that must be addressed before you can get to the bottom of the matter:

Purity does not equal goodness.

Sometimes there's a reason we don't indulge.

* * *

So this one was done while I had a deadline, one that was hanging over my head like a sword, so I figured I'd be able to relate to the subject matter.

I don't know, I think it ended up being a bit too rambling for my tastes.

Ah well, this was a nice little bit of Rod Serling-type narration nonetheless.

And if you're one of the ones who needs an in character reason for everything, then you can imagine that the narrator was the ghost of J.D. going over his past.

Guess he got rambly in his old age.


End file.
